Table For Three
by BittahWizard
Summary: The AU where Stiles' life is a Lifetime movie, but with more peace lilies.
1. Dear Beatrice, Give Me Strength

"I think I might be dying."

Scott doesn't even glance up from the receipts he's counting. "Uh-huh."

He looks up when Stiles doesn't say anything sarcastic in response. Scott takes in Stiles' panicked face and twitching fingers and pauses. "Dude. You were quiet for like 30 seconds—you _must_ be dying. What's wrong?"

"Do you have any idea who's sitting in the dining room right now?" Stiles is freaking out, tapping his knuckles against the serving tray he's holding. He yanks at the black tie noosed around his neck. "Also, you're making me wear this torture device."

Scott raises a brow. "It's the uniform."

"It's stupid!"

"You helped pick it out."

"I can't be trusted—I wore nothing but plaid until I was 20!"

"Trevor called in sick, we needed a server."

"It was my one night off!"

"You volunteered."

Stiles pauses, pointer finger raised. He squints. "Touché."

Chuckling, Scott stretches his arms behind his head. "So what's wrong?"

"Do you. Have any. _Idea_ who's in the dining room right now?" Stiles' hands are clammy. "And sitting in my section?"

Scott rolls back his chair and stands up. "I'm about to find out."

He races out of his office door, making his way through the busy kitchen. Stiles scrambles after him, all of his sous-chefs shouting, "Yes, Chef!" obnoxiously as he passes by. His assholery is really catching on.

_Awesome_.

He flips them all off.

God, he loves his job.

He runs into Scott's back, gripping his friend's shoulders to stabilize his landing. "Be cool, be cool. The table in the back over by the good peace lily."

Scott huffs. "You just say it's the best because you picked it out."

"Beatrice bloomed before everyone else! All those other phonies got nothing on my baby," Stiles whisper-shouts.

Confused, Scott cocks his head. He does a double-take. "Wait, isn't that…?" He looks over his shoulder at Stiles, finding his best friend's head right next to his. Waving his hand, he shoos Stiles back and turns to face him. "That's Allison and Malia. What the hell has you so worked up? You were cool with them when I dated them." His brow wrinkles. "Whoa, hold on...I'm the one that offered them the good table. They called and said they had something special to celebrate." Scott sighs dreamily. "I think they're getting engaged."

He refocuses, blinking back to reality, and sees Stiles scowling at him. "What?"

"I don't have a problem with _them_, per se, just the situation."

"What situation?"

Stiles starts struggling with his tie again. "Do you know who those men sitting with them are?"

Scott looks out the little window, narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face as a waiter—Jessica, Jesus she needs to stop slamming into things—barrels through the swinging door. She gives Stiles a sheepish look when she sees his hard gaze.

"Yeah, the guy with the beard is Allison's dad and the guy in the suit is Malia's."

"Chris and Peter," Stiles mutters.

Scott blinks. "Uh, you just said you didn't know them. How do you know their names?"

Stiles sighs wearily, looking up at the ceiling for answers.

He doesn't find any.

Looking back at Scott, he places both hands on the guy's shoulders and shakes him a bit. "That's the _problem_. It isn't with any single one of them—it's with _all_ of them. Together. Here. In my section."

"I'm sorry buddy, but I'm not following."

Stiles cringes preemptively. "Well, I might've…bangedeveryoneatthattable." He closes his eyes tight.

Scott gapes. "You, you—wait run that by me again?"

He peeks through one eye. "I fucked each and every person at that table and apparently they're all either related, about to be related, or in a relationship."

It's Scott's turn to close his eyes. "You had sex with Allison _and_ Malia?"

Stiles shakes Scott's shoulders a bit harder. "Hey, they were your ex-girlfriends. Heavy emphasis on the _ex. _Like, _years_ later. You don't get to throw stones after Lydia. Or Heather."

Scott winces. "You know about that?"

Stiles pins him with a withering look. "Or Danny."

Blushing, Scott nods slowly. "Fair. Just…one thing first." Then he grabs a dish towel from the prep station and starts smacking Stiles with it, punctuating each hit with: "You. Are. So. Gross. I. Can't. Believe. You."

They both start giggling. When Scott finally runs out of steam, he snickers out, "You had sex with their dads."

Stiles cackles. "I met Chris at a farmer's market and Peter at _The Tool Box_. They were so _good_, too."

Scott grins wickedly.

Stiles stops laughing. "What?"

Scott's grin turns positively evil.

Stiles' palms start to sweat. "_What?_"

Then Scott pushes him out into the dining room, shoving him along until Allison spots them both.

"I fucking hate you," Stiles grits out through clenched teeth.

Scott ignores him and keeps dragging him through the restaurant. "Love you too, bro."

They both stop at the dreaded table, and Stiles looks at Beatrice for strength. "Hi, there!" He fixes a bright smile onto his face. "I'm Stiles and I'll be your server for the night."


	2. Check, Please!

Four pairs of eyes stare back at him.

Scott smiles widely. "Allison, Malia—it's good to see you guys." He wraps an arm around Stiles' shoulder. "It's too bad you came here on my bro's day off, you only get a sample of his service rather than his delicious food." God, he's good. "I'll leave you to it." Then he winks at Stiles and makes his way back into his office.

Maybe, just maybe, they won't remember him.

"Well, _hello_ Stiles," Peter purrs.

Shit.

Stiles counts to three and then turns back towards the table. "Hi, can I get you started with something to drink? We have an excellent house red and—"

"You work here?" Chris chokes out. "You know Allison and Malia?"

Allison gives her father a weird look. "Dad, Stiles is Scott's best friend. His _business partner_. He doesn't just work here, he owns half of it. He's the head chef."

Stiles smiles uncomfortably. "Yes, um, Scott told me you guys are engaged. Congratulations!"

Malia grins wickedly—all of her smiles remind him of an animal baring its teeth for some reason—and places her hand on Allison's. "Thanks, Stiles. It's good to see you again—it's been a while."

"It sure has," he grits out.

"That's a rather impressive resume," Peter interrupts. "Might I ask why you're out here?" He glances down Stiles' lithe body. "Couldn't stay away from us, hm?"

Goosebumps form on his arms at the sound of Peter's velvety voice. "Erm, one of our servers called out sick and I was hanging around the kitchen anyway. Scott figured I might as well help out."

"That's a funny way to spend your day off," Chris remarks, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Oh Lord, his _mouth._

Stiles chuckles a bit. "A chef's job is never done." He straightens his tie, noticing that both men are noticing him.

Yeah, they definitely remember him.

"We'll take a bottle of the Chardonnay," Allison interjects. She glances at her father with _what the fuck?_ brows.

"Coming right up." He practically teleports to the bar.

Stiles takes a chilly bottle out of the refrigerator tucked under the tap. He wraps it in a white towel and cradles it in his hand, long fingers wrapping around the base deftly. He tucks an ice bucket under his other arm.

Carrying everything back swiftly, Stiles uncorks the bottle and fills up each of their glasses. When he leans over Chris' muscled shoulder, he can hear the man inhale deeply.

He rests the ice bucket on the end of the table, and Stiles buries the half-empty bottle in its depths. He looks up from his task, noting the smiles from the women and the heated gazes from the men.

Stiles gulps and then rattles of the night's specials. He finishes with a, "I'll let you guys have a little more time to look over the menu."

And then he busies himself with his other tables.

After a couple of minutes, he hides behind Fern the ficus (don't ask Stiles, Liam—one of their younger waiters—named it). Stiles fiddles with his phone and types out a quick text to Scott.

_I hate u_

He presses _Send_ and then pats Fern. "You got this," he mutters to himself. "You totally got this."

Stiles makes it through taking their orders, skillfully navigating his way through the mine field that is Peter's silver tongue and Chris' penetrating gaze.

It somehow makes it worse that Allison and Malia continue to ooh and ahh over one another, completely oblivious to everything but their lovey-dovey selves.

The rest of the night goes relatively smoothly. Stiles waits tables and fields hungry looks from two very attractive men.

He also sports a semi the whole time, and it's just stupid how okay he's become with the situation. A few smoldering looks and lilting words from a couple of silver foxes is all it takes for Stiles to completely forget that this meal also doubles as a soap opera.

When Stiles sees empty plates and dry glasses, he makes his way over—schmoozing and insisting on dessert.

On the house.

Malia and Allison laugh when Stiles carries over a heart shaped chocolate cake, complete with a single sparkler fizzing away in the middle. He sets a plate of chocolate covered strawberries in front of Peter and a pomegranate crème brûlée in front of Chris.

"Enjoy." He gives the girls a soft smile. "And, again, congratulations to the both of you." Stiles winks as he walks away.

Thirty minutes later Peter signs his credit card receipt, looking intensely down at the little book as he writes.

He hands it to Stiles slowly, giving the exchange a touch of tension and Stiles attempts to take it from him.

"Thank you for another wonderful evening, Stiles. I hope to see you soon," Peter murmurs.

Stiles flushes and walks a bit unsteadily back into the kitchen. Stiles leans against the wall and idly flips open the book.

There's something other than a generous tip written on the receipt.

_While the dessert was absolutely delicious, I'd rather you meet me around back in 10 minutes. See you soon, sweetheart_

Stiles takes a deep breath in, and then lets it out.

His mind is telling him _no_, but his wicked heart and his dick are both saying _yes, please_.

He smiles, knowing exactly what's about to happen.

Stiles yanks at his tie, looping it around the handle of Scott's office door on his way out the back.


	3. Dinner & A Show

Stiles walks out of the backdoor with a small skip in his step. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls out his phone. Looking down both ends of the empty alley, he types out another text to Scott.

_Going 2 get laid. Suck ittttttt_

He smirks as he slides his phone back into his pocket. What's the point in being an asshole chef if he doesn't actually act like an asshole?

At least that's how he reassures himself as he ghosts his best friend for some dick. Some _great_ dick—but a dick all the same.

Stiles slowly wanders down the alley toward the employee parking lot.

He doesn't spot Peter.

Leaning against the wall, he waits for another five minutes before sighing. Stiles runs a hand through his hair—jeez, he needs a cut—and berates himself for thinking that Peter wanted another round, that maybe the man wanted something _more_ than just another round.

_Shit_.

He blows out a loud breath and kicks off of the wall, walking towards his jeep with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes fixed forlornly on his feet.

"What's got your pretty face so upset, darling?"

Stiles chokes back a scream, scrambling backward at the sound of the disembodied voice.

He can see the back of his jeep parked at the end of the lot.

There's a figure leaning against the passenger door.

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Peter!" He's got one hand over his heart and the other gripping the can of pepper spray that's attached to his keys. "You can't just loiter in dark parking lots and say creepy one-liners—you're, you're fucking lucky I didn't mace your motherfucking face!" Stiles' racing heart slows as he takes in deep breaths.

Peter's face comes into view as he steps forward out of the shadows. "My apologies. I was simply waiting for you. When I saw you approaching, you looked quite distraught." His brow furrows. "Are you okay?"

Stiles huffs. "Yeah, I just—I'm fine." He walks into Peter's space, looking cautiously into the man's blue gaze. "Did you still want to—"

And then Stiles sees it.

Sees _him_.

Another figure emerges from the dark, rounding the hood of Stiles' jeep and coming to a stop next to where he and Peter are standing.

"Chris," Stiles breathes.

He backs away from Peter instinctively. "What…?"

Chris gives him a slow smile, his eyes glittering with a satisfied warmth. "Judging by the look on your face, I take it Peter failed to mention that I would be waiting for you, too?"

They both turn to look at Peter as the man shrugs, unrepentant. "I thought it would be a nice surprise."

Stiles backs a few steps away from both of them. "You two…," he looks between Chris and Peter. "So, you two know about…," Stiles smacks his hands together sharply a few times, and then mimes between him and each man. They both look at each other, amused.

"Yes, Stiles," Chris says, "we both knew about," he mimics Stiles' crazy gestures, "as soon as you introduced yourself as our waiter." He glances at Peter. "Peter and I have known each other for years. You could say that we…have similar tastes in male partners."

Stiles' eyes widen.

"We've cruised the same haunts for a long time now," Peter interjects. "And after so many years, you come to notice certain things about a man." He coughs out a laugh. "Like when Christopher dribbled water out of his mouth when he was checking out your ass every time you walked away from our table. The man is not subtle." Peter steps closer to Stiles. "That you can trust."

Chris growls low in his throat. "Don't let Peter fool you, either. He was practically deepthroating the breadsticks that you brought out."

Peter smacks Chris in the shoulder. "Now, don't be crass." He winks at Stiles. "He's not wrong, though. I'm surprised you didn't notice."

And Stiles? Stiles is hard again.

He coughs awkwardly into his fist. "I did." Both men stop scowling at each other to look over at Stiles. "Notice, that is. I was sporting an erection all night thanks to the two of you." He glances away, embarrassed by his own words. "It was torture—like I was reliving my night with you." Stiles fixes his gaze on Peter, and then on Chris. "My nights with both of you."

He adjusts himself in his tight slacks.

Both of their electric blue stares drop to his crotch.

"Yes, well," Peter licks his lips, "we're here to ask if you'd like to have another one of those nights…"

"With the both of us," Chris finishes.

Stiles blinks, and then looks up at the night sky.

_Whoever's up there—thank you_.

His gaze drops back down to earth. He can see the hunger in their eyes.

"Yes. To both of you, yes—just," Stiles swallows, "_fuck_ yes."

* * *

"Here…just, just let me get my—oh _fuck_, my—keys," Stiles gasps out as he's slammed against the front door of his apartment. Chris is making his way along Stiles' jaw—the man's graying beard scratching his cheeks and his muscled arms keeping Stiles pinned effortlessly.

_Guh_, Stiles can't get enough of him.

While Chris is sticking his tongue down Stiles' throat, Peter is sticking a hand into Stiles' pocket, grabbing a handful of his bulge as he searches for the house keys.

Stiles shudders as Chris' hands slide down his face, traveling along his body until both palms settle on the curve of his ass. He whimpers when Chris' hands—those big, strong hands—dig harder into his flesh.

Chris breaks away from their kiss when Peter opens the door. "God, I've been dreaming about you for a fucking month," he growls, nipping at Stiles' bottom lip.

Peter disappears into the apartment, shrugging off his suit jacket as he enters.

"Wrap." Kiss. "Your." Suck. "Arms." Bite. "Around." Lick. "My neck," Chris rasps out, finishing his order with a smooth roll of his hips.

"Mmph," is all Stiles can think to say in response.

Once his arms are tightly wound around Chris' neck, Stiles feels those wonderful hands dig into his thighs, hoisting him up. He wraps his legs around Chris' waist as he's carried through the doorway. Chris takes a moment to pause—breathing heavily against Stiles' parted lips—and kicks a long leg backward, slamming the door shut with his booted foot.

"So hot," Stiles mumbles, grinding down against Chris.

"You like that, huh?" Chris chuckles, his gaze half-lidded.

He walks them over to Stiles' leather couch. Chris sets him down atop the back of the sofa, dragging his hips closer until he fits into the cradle of Stiles' legs. Snaking a hand in between them, Chris grips Stiles' cock and strokes him through his pants.

Stiles moans, long and loud—absolutely shameless in the way his hips start to stutter under Chris' firm grasp.

"It's nice to know that you've kept everything in the same spot," Peter purrs as he steps out of Stiles' bedroom. Stiles turns his head to the side, looking at Peter as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. The tease strips slowly, and Stiles can't look away from the miles of glorious, tanned muscle that are being revealed.

"I was right…I'm actually going to die," Stiles pants, "You two are going to kill me." He frames Chris' face with his long fingers, diving back in to suck on his tongue.

He can hear Peter kneel on the couch cushions behind him. Stiles' arms are yanked backward, Peter's hands coming around his chest and ripping open his shirt. Chris untangles himself from Stiles' octopus grip, dropping to his knees and untying Stiles' shoes. He slides back up, granting Stiles another kiss before taking ahold of his belt buckle.

Stiles wriggles as Peter strips his shirt off of him, the man's warm, naked chest coming to rest at his back. He squirms as Chris wrestles with his pants, pulling both his slacks and his briefs down in one hard tug.

"You might be needing this," Peter says, tossing Chris the tube of lube Stiles keeps by his bedside.

Chris catches it with one hand and starts jacking Stiles' cock with the other.

"Goddamn you both," Stiles croaks as Peter starts playing with his nipples.

Peter just laughs and murmurs, "Love you too, sweetheart."

Chris takes a moment to peel off his leather jacket, tossing it aside carelessly. He slots himself back in between Stiles' legs and squirts some lube onto his fingers. He looks Stiles dead in the eye and whispers, "Now, what do you say?"

"Shit," Stiles groans.

Peter stills for a second behind him.

God, he remembers _this_—this, this _madness_. Stiles remembers this particular game, how it made him feel.

God, he's _missed_ this.

Chris strokes his dick, sliding his palm down until he reaches Stiles' balls. "What do you say?" he growls out.

Stiles reaches back and holds onto Peter. "Please," he moans. "Please fuck me."

Chris smirks. "Now was that so hard?" And then he slips two fingers into Stiles' ass.

"I never knew you were so…_demanding_, Christopher," Peter says, licking along the base of Stiles' throat.

Stiles pants as Chris finger fucks him. He drags one arm away from Peter's neck and steadies himself on the couch as Chris picks up the pace.

"Fuck!" he screams, sweat starting to drip down his temple.

Chris looks up from watching his hand piston in and out of Stiles and holds Peter's surprised gaze. "I didn't know either." He slows his hand, running his thumb over Stiles' perineum before sliding a third digit in. "Not before him." His eyes burn through Stiles, and he can't look away. "One look at him and I just—_need_," he twists his wrist, "this from him, whatever _this_ is."

"So right," Stiles mumbles. "So right, so good." He bites the inside of his cheek. "You're so _good_ to me, Chris."

Stiles watches, attention rapt and Peter biting at his ear, as Chris jerks away, kicking off his boots and unfastening his belt. Chris meets his gaze. A glimmer of déjà vu settles over them.

Chris pulls his jeans down to his thighs and grabs one of the condoms Peter set on the sofa.

Stiles stares as Chris' thick dick bobs in the air. Chris slides on the condom, slicks more lube on his dick, and then steps back into Stiles' space.

"You look so beautiful," Peter breathes in his ear.

And then Chris thrusts forward, burying inch after inch of his cock into Stiles.

Peter fists Stiles' leaking dick and starts stroking, a counter to the agonizingly slow fuck Chris is giving him.

"You're a fucking sadist," Stiles grits out through clenched teeth.

"The word you're looking for is _hedonist_," Peter corrects.

He grunts as Chris slows even further. "I wasn't talking to you, handsome."

Chris smiles beatifically down at Stiles. "So you remember our time together."

"Yes, you bastard," he shouts. Breathing heavily, Stiles begins to laugh. "How's that table, by the way?"

Chris laughs, too. "Still broken. I'm thinking of turning it into an art installation."

"I'd pay to see that," Stiles huffs.

Peter pinches his nipple. "So would I."

"C'mon," Stiles pleads. "Give me what I want." He clenches, reveling in Chris' sharp inhalation. "What we both want." He licks his lips. "Please," he whispers.

Chris shudders, drawing his hips back slowly. "Fuck, yes." Then he slams back into Stiles' ass, eliciting a "Damn" from Peter and a hissed "Yessss" from Stiles.

Stiles turns his head and captures Peter's soft lips with his own. They pant into each others' mouths as Chris continues to drill into Stiles.

"You like it so rough, sweetie," Peter hums against his lips. "You just let him take and take and take, don't you?" He drags his arms down Stiles' abs, nails scratching at his happy trail. "It's so lovely to watch," he glances at Chris' cock pounding into him, "but you remember our time together, too, don't you?"

Stiles shivers and nods his head.

"You might like to be _fucked_, darling, but you also like to be _worshipped,_" Peter tugs at his hair. "And that's what I did, didn't I? I worshipped that pretty cock and your hungry hole until you cried."

Stiles mewls into Peter's mouth as Chris grinds inside him.

"And you want to know the best part?" Peter asks, his hand stroking Stiles' cock faster, keeping time with Chris' hard thrusts.

Stiles nods, greedy for Peter's dirty talk—his cheeks splotchy red and his body curling with the mounting pleasure.

"I'm going to do it all again. Only this time, you're going to be all fucked out and spent, cum drunk and sensitive when I do it." Peter lets go of his cock and watches as Stiles helplessly humps the air. "After Chris makes you come, you're going to sit on my dick and ride me until you do it all over again."

Peter's silky promise and Chris' sharp strokes push Stiles over the edge. He comes with a hoarse cry, dick emptying all over his belly.

"Oh fuck!" Chris grunts as Stiles orgasms around him. He thrusts a few moments longer, and then finishes while grinding against Stiles' prostate. Chris shudders above him, eyes bright and dilated.

He and Chris bask in their shared glow for a few minutes before Peter plucks at his nipples. Chris nods and slides out of Stiles, gathering him close for a few more slow kisses.

Stiles hears the crinkle of another condom wrapper.

Peter spins Stiles around and pulls him down into his naked lap. "That was breathtaking, you beautiful boy." He lowers his head and sucks at one of Stiles' sensitive nipples. "Are you ready?"

Stiles can't nod fast enough.

Chris walks away from the living room, now completely naked, and into the bathroom.

Stiles lifts a leg, straddling Peter, and then takes ahold of the man's long cock. He lowers himself slowly, shouting out, "There's…water and snacks...in the kitchen." He gasps as Peter licks his jaw.

Stiles starts rocking side to side, swiveling his hips until he finds the perfect spot. Peter laughs at Stiles' victorious smile and then kisses him. Stiles begins to ride Peter, all smooth and leisurely. Peter moans.

Chris wanders out of the bathroom, strolls over, and runs a hand up his spine. "Thank you, Stiles." And then he disappears into the kitchen.

Stiles' eyes roll back as Peter thrusts upward at the same time he rides downward.

"_Yes_, Peter, just like that!"

"Like this?" Peter's balls smack against Stiles' ass.

"Yes, you smug prick, like that."

And then Stiles loses himself to their dance.

"Do you know what that filthy mouth of yours gets you?" Peter asks, voice soft and strained.

Stiles opens his eyes and gazes down at the slap of their bodies. "What?" he murmurs.

Peter's eyes turn into pleased slits. "An audience."

"Wha—?"

Peter pulls out of Stiles and turns him in his lap.

Chris is sitting across from them in the loveseat, thighs spread wide and a half-drunk bottle of water at his side. The man is palming his dick idly, and Stiles can't help but meet Chris' lusty gaze and groan.

Slipping back into Stiles, Peter leans forward and says, "Look at him. He's already had you, fucked you nice and hard, and he still can't get enough." Stiles yelps as Peter reaches around and grips his sensitive dick. "He's already planning three more rounds, just look at him."

Stiles looks. He whimpers at what he sees.

It makes him fuck Peter faster.

"Yes, that's it. Take what you need."

Peter strips his cock until Stiles can't take it anymore.

He gives into the overwhelming pleasure and just lets that ache _burn_.

Stiles spills into Peter's hand with a loud shout.

Peter groans into his ear, whispering sweet nothings as he continues to fuck into Stiles.

He comes with a sharp inhale, both of his hands running up and down Stiles' legs. Peter cuddles him close as they both try to slow their breathing.

After a beat, Stiles rolls off of Peter and slumps into the cushion next to him.

The three of them settle into a comfortable silence.

Peter glances over at him and asks, "Did I hear something about snacks?"

* * *

When 3 am rolls around and they're all squeezed into Stiles' bed, panting and sated, Stiles laughs.

He chuckles softly until both of his lovers turn their heads and look at him. Then he laughs harder.

"What?" Peter asks.

"It's just, I think I need to tell you both something." Stiles holds a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter.

Chris rolls onto his side to face him. "What is it?"

Stiles meets his curious gaze. "You know how nervous I was at dinner?"

Peter strokes his hair. "You hid it very well, but yes."

"It wasn't just because of you two."

Chris raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Stiles stops laughing. "If we're going to continue doing this, y'know, seeing where all of this goes, I thought I should just get it all out in the open." He puts his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. "I had sex with both of your daughters."

Both men still.

Chris jerks upright. "Wait, _what?_"

Peter sits up, leaning on his elbow. "_Both_ of our daughters?"

Stiles nods, biting his lip.

There's nothing but silence.

"You're both better."

Both men whip around to stare at him. "That's what you were wondering, isn't it?"

Peter's shoulders start to shake, and Chris reaches out and smacks him. "It isn't funny!"

"It's not?" Peter snickers. He lays back down and curls into Stiles' side.

Stiles can see the corners of Chris' mouth raise in the moonlight. "No, it isn't funny asshole."

But it is. It really, _really_ is.


End file.
